The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Read online

  Her first effort had the unexpected benefit of irritating her captor. “Again?” he demanded, glaring at her as if she were a child. “You just went before we left—thirty minutes ago.”

  The blush staining her cheeks wasn’t feigned. How like him to be ungallant enough to question her! She lifted her chin. “I must have had too much ale to drink while breaking my fast.”

  Grumbling the entire time, he called for a stop. After Sir Alex helped her down, she took her time finding a bit of privacy in which to pretend to relieve herself. By the time she returned, Boyd’s irritation had turned to full-fledged chomping-at-the-bit impatience. He didn’t say anything, just glared at her. She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

  He grumbled something unintelligible about “lasses,” and they were off again. She wondered how many times she’d be able to get away with the ploy before he became suspicious and put an end to it. If she could get past the embarrassment, the next time he questioned her, she planned to plead her woman’s curse. Surely that would properly mortify him. Maybe she’d top it off by asking him to go find some rags for her to use?

  She smiled, thinking the embarrassment would almost be worth it to see the formidable countenance pale with male horror.

  By all rights she should be terrified of the man, certainly not thinking of ways to irritate him—even if it was for a good cause, to slow them down. But for some reason, despite his reputation, his harshness toward her, and his intimidating physicality, she sensed he would not hurt her.

  Her attempts at conversation with the other men were brusquely cut off by all except Sir Alex. He was no more forthcoming than Boyd, but at least he curtailed her questions with a smile.

  She spent most of her time keeping an eye on Roger, and when the opportunity arose, attempting to keep his spirits up. “Just think of the stories you will have to tell when this is all over,” she said. “I’m sure the other squires will be hanging on every detail.”

  Her nephew seemed to consider this, and after a moment his sagging shoulders lifted just a little. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think they will be impressed?”

  Rosalin tried not to smile, knowing how important it was for boys of his age to impress their peers—boys of any age, she might add. “I should think so. Not many English squires have come face-to-face with the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer. Not to mention nearly plunging your dagger into his back and drawing your sword against a knight of Sir Alexander Fraser’s stature. Aye, you will have quite the stories to tell. I daresay, you will have the young lasses at the castle interested as well.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Although you probably aren’t interested in the lasses?”

  His red face told her differently. He hesitated, looking as if his surcoat were tied too tight. “Actually, there is a lass at Norham who might be interested.”

  She lifted a brow. “I thought there might be. Cliff wasn’t much older than you when he first met your mother.”

  Roger looked at her in surprise. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I remember thinking it was so romantic.” Then she added for Boyd’s benefit, as she suspected he was listening to every word, “Of course I was young and prone to silly romantic fantasies at the time. Your father and mother were very fortunate; most youthful romances only lead to disappointment.” She saw Boyd stiffen and knew her barb had struck. Suddenly, remembering who she was really talking to, she turned back to her nephew with a smile. “But you shall have plenty of time for that, and unless I’ve missed my mark you are very much like my brother in another way. He seemed to have every young girl in the Marches half in love with him.”

  Roger blushed, and the opportunity for further conversation was lost when Boyd—not coincidentally, she suspected—quickened their pace. Every now and then, Boyd or one of his men would break off to scout ahead or behind to make sure they weren’t being tracked.

  Rosalin was making more of an effort to remember identifying landmarks for their next opportunity to escape, but as they seemed to stick to the forests and hills and avoid any size village, only the occasional church or house in the distance provided any break in the monotony of rusty heather-covered hillsides and ghostly gray forests. In the spring it would undoubtedly be beautiful, but right now it just looked cold and forbidding.

  God in heaven, she wanted to go home!

  She was just about to demand another stop to tend her needs when she glimpsed black billows of smoke in the trees to the east a few furlongs in the distance. “Hold,” she said, pulling back on her reins.

  Boyd, who was riding right in front of her at the time, swung his horse around and glared at her. “I don’t know what your game is, my lady, but if this is another one of your breaks, you’re going to have to wait.”

  Despite the fact that he was glowering at her again, and she was just as angry at him, something caught in her chest when she looked at him. He might have tried to blame it on her, but invitation or not, he’d been about to kiss her last night, and every time their eyes had met since, she couldn’t forget it. There wasn’t a pretty bone in him, but he was gorgeous enough to make her stomach drop. His masculine appeal was undeniable. Looking at him made her heart flutter just as frantically as it had when she was sixteen. Apparently, she was still attracted to oversized barbarians.

  Usually she preferred clean-shaven men, but rough and stubbly was beginning to grow on her. There was something about the shadow of whiskers darkening his already formidable jaw that made her feel shivery and a little wicked.

  Realizing he was waiting for her to respond, she had to shake off the daze. “I don’t have to stop again. It’s just that I saw smoke.” She pointed. “Over there.”

  He didn’t even glance over. “I saw it.”

  “And you are not going to investigate?” she said incredulously. “It looks like a building could be burning.”

  His expression darkened. “Probably more than one. There is no need to investigate. Given the proximity to the garrison at Thirlestane, I’d say it was more English looking to fatten their stores by raiding the local villagers.”

  She paled, understanding now why her question had angered him. But she didn’t let it deter her. “Should we not go and see if they need help?”

  “It’s too late for that. Given the color and thickness of the smoke, the English are long gone by now.”

  “Perhaps so, but fighting English isn’t the only reason to stop—they may still need our help. We cannot just ride by and do nothing.”

  He gave her a long look. “Why do you care? These are not your people. Hell, the order for the raid probably came from your brother.”

  She flushed indignantly. “It most assuredly did not.” She hoped. “And they might not be ‘my people’ as you say, but they are people and thus deserving of compassion.” She lowered her voice and met his gaze, daring him to deny her. “I would not turn my back on anyone in need, even starving rebel prisoners.”

  He did not take the dare. “Very well, but do not blame me if you do not like what you find.”

  Seven

  Rosalin didn’t like what she found at all. It was horrible—every bit as devastating as what she’d witnessed at Norham. How could people do this to one another? But war and the horrors committed in its name were something that she’d never understood. Her brother was right. Her heart was too soft for this.

  Perhaps it might be different if she hadn’t been raised so far away. In London, she didn’t have raids, devastation, and suffering with which to contend. The kind of hatred Boyd possessed was foreign to her, but perhaps also justified if what he’d said was true.

  Had his father really been killed so treacherously? Though Cliff had tried to keep her insulated from the war, she recalled hearing a story about the Barns of Ayr, which sounded much like what Robbie described. She also recalled the brutal retaliation by Wallace and the Scots.

  But it was his reminder of the fate of the Countess of Buchan and Mary Bruce, who’d been imprisoned and hung in cage